Murder in the Rue Ursulines

real, but we will forever be married in notoriety.”

“But you’ve already accomplished that. There’s no need to kill Paige,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and soothing. “The police are on their way right now. Just put the gun down, and we can wait for them, and you can tell them your story. And Paige is a reporter, you know. She can write it for you.”

She looked at me as though I were the one who was insane. “I’m not going to jail, Mr. MacLeod.” She took the gun away from Paige’s head. “And now, there’s no to kill your friend anymore. I know she’s a reporter. She’s heard the entire story now, there’s no need for me to kill her. She’s the only one who knows my story. It would be stupid of me to kill her.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not the plan.” She smiled at me. “Tell Freddy I loved him.”

She put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

Epilogue

It took about two weeks for my fifteen minutes of fame to come to an end.

I can’t say I was sorry to see the pack of hyenas in front of my house gone for good. I don’t know how celebrities deal with it on a daily basis.

I didn’t talk to the press, other than Paige. When her first story for Crescent City magazine hit the newsstands, the magazine sold out the first day. It was, as she said, a great debut to make as editor in chief of the magazine. That bitch Coralie even called her to congratulate her-and Paige was gracious enough not to rub her face in it.

I, of course, would have. She’s obviously a better person than I am.

Venus and Blaine got commendations from the city for their efforts in solving the case.

I never met with Freddy and Jillian again, but about five days after Rosemary Shannon killed herself, I got another check from them in the mail. This time it was for ten thousand dollars. There was no note or anything, which was fine with me. All I cared about was whether the check would clear, and it did.

According to what I read in line at the grocery store, Freddy and Jillian’s marriage is in trouble. I can’t say that comes as a big surprise.

Interestingly enough, the gun Rosemary used to kill herself-and Joey-was a match for the gun used to kill Tim Dahkle. So, the Kansas cops were able to close an open homicide.

Paige is really happy working at Crescent City. The publisher has given her carte blanche to reshape the magazine the way she wants. She and Ryan haven’t set a date yet, but there’s no question in my mind it won’t be long.

Joey’s family refused to claim his body, so I did. It seemed like the least I could do. I’ll never know what went through his mind that night. I’ll never know if the Joey I’d talked to was just pulling an act, but I prefer to think he was just a nice kid caught up in something too big for him to really handle. I had his body cremated, and on a beautiful spring morning, I dumped his ashes into the river at Wollenberg Park.

I even allowed myself to shed a tear for him.

Jephtha and Abby are both taking a private eye course. I’m sponsoring them, and am even considering making them partners in my business.

Every once in a while, I catch a rerun of Sportsdesk, and I can’t help but feel sorry for Glynis Parrish. She really was talented. Marrying Freddy had doomed her, but there was no way she could have known that at the time.

It really makes you stop and think, doesn’t it?

Author’s Note

Murder in the Rue Ursulines wasn’t supposed to be the fourth Chanse MacLeod novel; that was supposed to be Murder in the Garden District.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the publisher.

My career was rather chaotic after Hurricane Katrina. I write two different series-in addition to the Chanse series, I also write a lighter funnier series about a gay French Quarter private eye named Scotty Bradley-but after the devastation suffered by New Orleans after the failure of the levees on August 29, 2005, I didn’t really see how I could write a ‘funny’ series about New Orleans any longer. So, the Scotty series went on hold for a while.

But in 2007, I had an idea that seemed right up Scotty’s alley. Since the turn of the century, New Orleans had started wooing the film and television industry with tax breaks and other incentives to start filming here. This proved to be enormously successful, to the point that New Orleans was nicknamed “Hollywood South.” Before Katrina, I had thought about writing a mystery built around the filming of a movie-I’ve always loved the movies, and books about the movies-but I never quite got around to it.

After Katrina, there was some major concern about the burgeoning film and television industry here in Hollywood South-but the production companies did come back, and one of the most popular parts of the city for filming became the neighborhood where I work, the Faubourg Marigny, and especially Frenchmen Street.

One day, I was walking down to the deli from my office to get a soda and a snack while some filming was going on. All of a sudden gunshots rang out, and I almost jumped out of my skin. My heart racing, I spun around just as someone yelled “cut” and it was with no small sense of relief that I realized it had all been just a part of the filming.

And just like that, I saw the opening scene of my next Scotty book: on his way home from an errand, someone starts shooting at him, and he gets pulled inside a gate about a block from his house. That was it, but I kept seeing it over and over again in my head, and when I got home from work that night I sat down at the computer and started writing the scene. As I wrote it out, I realized two things: one, that Scotty isn’t the intended target but bears a strong resemblance to him and two, the intended target should be a movie star. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I titled it Vieux Carre Voodoo, and the next morning I wrote a quick proposal and outline, printed them out along with the chapter I’d written, and sent it off to my publisher.

Usually in those circumstances, I generally don’t start writing the book until I have a signed contract in hand. But I was really into this story, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. As I was waiting for my other publisher to make an offer on Murder in the Garden District, and at loose ends, I started writing the first draft of Vieux Carre Voodoo. The more I worked on it, the more I liked it.

Ironically, my publisher decided to drop the Scotty series-and let me know the very day after I finished the first draft. Disappointed, I put it aside.

A month later, there was some turmoil at the publisher of the Chanse series, but once it settled down, it turned out they wanted Murder in the Garden District-but there was a catch; they needed it as soon as possible. As I hadn’t even started writing it yet, we went back and forth for a few days-and then a solution occurred to me: I’d already written the first draft of a New Orleans mystery; I could probably rewrite and revise that in ten weeks and convert it from a Scotty book to a Chanse book.

But if I was going to put myself through this, I also wanted a contract for Murder in the Garden District, which I would write next.

They were desperate enough to agree to my terms, and I was very proud of myself…right up until the moment I started trying to convert a Scotty Bradley novel into a Chanse MacLeod.

I wasted probably two weeks before I realized it wasn’t possible.

I threw out almost everything I had already done and kept some basics: I kept the Hollywood South stuff and the characters, and the basic skeleton of the plot: the ex-wife of a major film star is murdered, and their divorce had been very public and very ugly. I wrote like a demon, and even managed to incorporate the ‘mistaken identity’ trope (which had sold me on the story in the first place) into the book. I turned it in, and even convinced my publisher to contract my friend and mentor Julie Smith to work with me as my editor once it was finished.

And once Julie got her hands on the book, we wound up throwing out about a third of the story-as well as a new boyfriend for Chanse I had introduced-and I had to rewrite like crazy all over again. We didn’t have much time-perhaps a month at most-and we both worked like demons, but we got it done, finished, and turned in.